Lyrium Blue
by karebear
Summary: Most of the time when he saw her, she was alone. Maybe that was why he was so drawn to her.


He held the small vial in his hand. It felt slightly cold to the touch. The liquid inside was bright blue, almost seeming to glow. The young templar opened the vial and poured the blue light down his throat, then set the empty vial on the desk in front of him. The desk behind which Knight Commander Greagoir was standing, keeping a close eye on him.

"How're you holding up, son?"

"I'm f-fine."

Greagoir nodded approval, and sent Cullen back to the halls of the Tower. He continued his patrol, through the apprentice dorms and the library, where he noticed the girl with wheat-blonde hair spilling down her shoulders, biting her lower lip as she bent over a book, deep in concentration.

Cullen felt his chest constrict. He could still feel the lyrium, strong within him, like static under his skin. He was too far away to feel the magic the girl so easily wielded, and Cullen silently watched. He looked in on her most days. He knew she was Irving's apprentice. He'd seen her in classes and in the library and even in the apprentice dorms. He'd never talked to her though.

Most of the time when he saw her, she was alone. Maybe that was why he was so drawn to her. As the youngest and least experienced of the templars here, he often felt alone. The rules they had to follow were deliberately isolating - templars had to remain separate from the mages they guarded. But still, he knew what he had learned, after his parents gave him to the Chantry to train as a templar: his job was not solely to watch the mages, but to protect them as well.

With his shy stammer and his youth and inexperience, he didn't feel very capable of protecting anyone. He certainly couldn't protect the young man Anders, whom Rhyanon Amell cried over when nobody else was watching. Cullen saw her.

And now, in the aftermath of Anders being sentenced to solitary confinement, Rhyanon was angry. It made her unapproachable, she bristled up like a porcupine whenever anyone came near.

But she was lonely. And so was he.

She was sitting at a table in the library, and he almost reached out for her, almost stepped toward her, almost opened his mouth. He was standing rigidly at his post near the library door when she whirled around and glared at him. "What do you __want __?" she demanded.

Cullen wasn't wearing a helmet. He was sure she could see him sweating. "N-nothing. I don't want anything."

"Are you following me?"

"No," he said, although he could see why she would think that. "I'm not - I'm not following you."

"You watch me all the time." Her voice softened, and she turned the accusation into a question. And Cullen nods, in answer. He's not supposed to admit to this. He's not supposed to show compassion or concern, or even talk to the mages at all, except in very specific circumstances.

But instead of pulling back, Cullen slipped into the empty seat across the table from Rhyanon Amell. She stared at him, slightly open-mouthed, but she didn't __say __anything. And Cullen took a deep breath, boosting his confidence.

"Are you... alright?" he asked carefully. Rhyanon glared at him.

"You're a __templar __," she insisted.

"Yes."

"So what the hell are you doing, asking me that?"

She turned away from him and curled up on herself, creating an invisible shield to push him away. Cullen cleared his throat, softly, and got up from the table.

He turned back one more time after he stood up, and looked at Rhyanon, who seemed to be trying to pretend that he didn't exist.

"I'm… not supposed to tell you this," he started, and Rhyanon looked up, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Your Harrowing. It's going to be tonight."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because…" Cullen started, but he stopped abruptly, and just shrugged. "I'll be there, you know," he added quietly.

He's going to be there to protect her. With a sword.

He waited for Amell to pull away again, but she just watched him, with a look of disbelief on her face. And was that a little bit of fear?

Cullen wanted to reassure her, but in truth he was more than a little afraid himself. He knew his duty, and he knew that he would perform that duty admirably if called upon. And that was exactly what scared him.

He studied Rhyanon, memorizing the color of her eyes, the expression on her face, the way her hair slipped out of its tie and framed the curve of her cheek. She was beautiful. And tonight, the two of them would be on opposite sides, in a test that rode the razor's edge between life and death.

Rhyanon said nothing, and Cullen had a job to do, he needed to patrol, he'd be expected at another duty post soon. He turned away from her, his heart still hammering in his chest, and he didn't look back.

Still, he couldn't stop thinking about her, as nightfall sent its darkness to consume the tower. Cullen paced through the halls, calling it patrolling. His terror lived inside his heart, but he had a duty. He couldn't run now.

He looked in on the apprentice dorms shortly before midnight. Rhyanon was on a top bunk, eyes closed and breathing softly, looking at casual glance to be asleep. But her body was too tense, and as soon as Cullen took a step forward to "wake" her, she opened her eyes, and looked into his. Cullen knew it was the first time they'd ever looked directly at one another, and the eye contact sent a surge of electricity through him. He was suddenly at a loss for words. What did you say to a mage who was about to undergo the Harrowing? Should he stammer out a greeting? He held out a hand to help her down from the bunk, but she just shrugged him off and jumped down on her own.

"It's time," Cullen said, needlessly. Rhyanon nodded and followed him, still bristling at being forced to obey him as a templar. As the one who would hold a sword at her throat in a few minutes' time. Rhyanon would be the first to remind him that they aren't friends.

He led her up to the Harrowing Chamber, and slowly pushed open the door. The room was illuminated by the liquid light contained within the font at the center, lyrium blue.

"Ah, welcome," First Enchanter Irving pronounced in a gravelly voice. Rhyanon glanced curiously at Cullen, and then walked over to her teacher.

Cullen glanced at the Knight Commander, and then took his place on the other side of the stone basin. He drew his sword, and held it in a white-knuckled, two-handed grip, resting point down on the floor. He stood straight-backed and alert. He could feel the lyrium, like a buzzing in his brain, but he forced himself to block it out and he focused on the mage who stood caught between Knight Commander Greagoir and the First Enchanter. Rhyanon Amell seemed dwarfed by the two men, who together appeared to be attempting to cobble together a gravely serious speech halfway between motivational talk and dire warning. Amell was paying little attention to their words. She shifted her body closer to the lyrium in its stone bowl and reached out for it, like it was calling to her. Her fingers skimmed the bowl, and then dipped into that liquid, sending ripples spreading outward from her touch. She took a deep breath or two, and then she fell limp, and would've hit the stone floor had Irving not caught her at the last moment. He laid her down gently, and sat beside her, shoulders hunched and murmuring to himself. Rhyanon appeared to be sleeping, but it was not a restful sleep. She twitched and thrashed about, and Cullen kept a very close eye on her, sword still in his hands. He glanced up at Greagoir, once, but the Knight Commander wore an emotionless mask, and Cullen quickly looked away.

How long were these things supposed to take? Every second dragged on slowly. Cullen held his breath until it physically hurt. He could see the Knight Commander growing uncomfortable as the long minutes dragged by. Greagoir kept shooting glances at the First Enchanter, but Irving just stood there stoically and said nothing at all. The silence in the room was choking. Every passing minute felt heavier, like a weight on Cullen's shoulders. How long, too long, the whispers of his duty scratched inside his head, but his hands didn't even shake on the grip of the sword. Greagoir met his eyes and nodded, a subtle order, but the weight of it was almost too much to bear.

Cullen lifted the sword. And at that moment, Rhyanon Amell blinked her eyes open. Cullen fell to his knees beside her and looked into her eyes: still clear, bright blue, almost lyrium-blue. He breathed a sigh of relief.

"What are you doing, boy?!" Greagoir. Cullen kept his hand protectively on Amell's shoulder.

"She didn't fail," he insisted. "I would know."

Rhyanon scrambled backward, away from him, away from Greagoir. "I __didn't __fail," she demanded. The First Enchanter seemed to believe her, and Cullen felt nauseated at the thought that Greagoir might not retract his order. Flickers of rebelliousness sparked inside of him, weak but present, and he clung to those. He could fight an abomination, but he draws the line at killing an innocent girl.

Finally, Greagoir let out a breath, looked at Irving, and then scrutinized Amell, who had gotten to her feet and stood there looking defiant, like she would take on all of them and the rest of the tower besides, if she had to. "Congratulations," the Knight Commander finally said. "I'm sure the First Enchanter will want to speak to you."

He left, but Cullen stayed in the room, knowing the rules about not leaving two mages alone to conspire against the Circle. He didn't especially expect that kind of thing from First Enchanter Irving, and he was very aware of how late it was, how much his body craved sleep. He watched student and teacher conversing quietly, and he followed as Irving led Amell to one of the small bedchambers in the section of the tower where the Harrowed mages slept.

"Good night," Cullen whispered, after they were both left alone. He knew that mages slept hard after a Harrowing, sometimes they were unable to be roused for days. But Cullen would keep an eye on Amell, as he had through her days as an apprentice. He wouldn't let any harm come to her.

As she slept, he walked with heavy booted footsteps back to his quarters, where he shucked off his armor and sat on the edge of his bed and whispered a few prayers of thanks to the Maker, as he set his duty down, for just a few hours, as his eyes closed.

His dreams that night were lyrium blue.


End file.
